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My awesome grandad flew in Wellingtons in the war. Damn, those shortages were terrible. Tell us about brilliant-stroke-rubbish grandparents.

Suggested by Buffet the Appetite Slayer

(, Thu 2 Jun 2011, 21:51)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Funny and sad.
When I was little I was the apple of my grans eye. We spent loads of time together and she spoiled me rotten, like all good grandmothers do. Unfortunately she suffered a couple of strokes when I was in my late teens and her mental state deteriorated rapidly.

At the stage where she
was beginning to need full time residential care it was tough on my mum, having to juggle caring for gran with work and family. So one night we get a call about 1am to say she can't get her slippers on. She sounds a bit upset so I volunteer to go, letting mum have a rest. What I found there was the most unpleasant thing I have ever witnessed. My beloved gran was sitting on the end of her bed, buck naked and smeared in shit. There was shit all over the bed, the floor, the walls etc. "fuck this" thinks I and I went to call for backup. It was then I realised that the shitstorm happened before she called. Yes, the phone was smeared in goopy brown matter too (no mobile either back then). I had to use it, two finger stylee and strain to hear while holding it both as far as I could manage and as close as I dared.

The only thing that sickens of more is that according to the internets, that would be some sick puppy's wet-dream.

Length? The longest 30 second call of my life.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 11:35, 2 replies)
My maternal Granddad is amazing
I'm half Polish, and both grandparents on my mothers side were in Poland during the war. My Granddad in German occupied areas (ending up in Warsaw), and my grandmother in Russian occupied areas (now in the Ukraine). My grandmother was deported to Siberia, and she's written a book about it, there are a few copies floating around, and if you ever meet her she'll have sold you one within about 5 minutes.

My granddad has a host of stories, both before, during, and after the war. I'll probably wheel a fair few out over the course of this week.

He was raised in a farm near the German border, and his father had business with them quite often, and as such he spoke German very well, and knew all the formal introductions.

So after the Warsaw Uprising, he was chosen to negotiate the surrender of his group. He walks into the office where the German official is waiting, stands to attention, and gives himself a full formal introduction, complete with titles, for a landowning baron (using the name of the farm, which had since been repossessed by the Germans). The officer taking the surrender, being heavily drilled, instantly salutes, looks embarrassed when he realises what just happened, and the negotiations continue on good terms after that.

He's always very careful to differentiate between the Nazis and the Germans, if they ever captured a German soldier, he would be treated well, since they knew that that meant that they would be treated properly if one of them was captured. The SS were shot.

~~~~~~~~Wavy lines to before the war~~~~~~~~

Him and his brother had quite a rivalry going on, and there's a lot of stories about how they used to get at each other. My great uncle was older, and stronger, but my granddad was cunning, and better prepared.

One particular bone of contention was strawberries, my granddad liked (and still does) to leave them coated in sugar for an hour or so before eating them, so that they absorb all the sugary goodness for when he eats them. his brother used to see this bowl of tempting deliciousness on the side, take it, and eat the lot.

So my granddad decides to discourage him. Next time he gets some strawberries out, he chooses the biggest, plumpest one he can find, hollows it out, and fills the inside with whatever he can find. Paprika, ginger, raw garlic, vinegar, all crushed into a paste, then carefully puts the top back on, making sure that it stays together, and isn't too noticeable. His brother comes along, and as usual, steals this tasty snack, thens spends the next half hour running around screaming that he's been poisoned.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 11:31, 3 replies)
Once my sister was reading the Cosmopolitan in the garden...
... and read an article that children whose mothers had orgasms during conception are brighter than others. She then asked my mother if she had an orgasm when they made her and my grandmother interjected with "Orgasm, all these newfangled things! We didn't have those, otherwise we'd have had fewer children!"
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 11:26, Reply)
Narky trumpy Gramps
I lived with my dad's parents for a few months when I was in my late teens. Their house always smelt like a wet nappy full of sprouts. My Grampy was always in mood and would mostly sit at a table by the living room window filling in his pools coupon.

Once, my Nan asked him if he would put the bin out. Bearing in mind she hadn't asked him before, he replied like a lion ripping the flesh out of a downed antelope, savouring the first word of his outburst with rancid bile, "Al-right, alright, alright, alright, alright, alright, alright, alright Love. Don't go on."

I found his hypocrisy mildly amusing.

Also when he walked upstairs, he'd audibly fart on every step.

And he used to drink the water from boiled cabbage. Which probably explains the farting.

He also had a lump on his head and when asked what it was, he said it was where a giraffe bit him.

Oh, and my Nan used to make brawn.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 11:24, Reply)
"What have you been cooking in this frying pan..?
"...it took me ages to get it clean!"

"It's one of those 'new' non-stick pans, grandma. It was supposed to be black."
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 11:06, 1 reply)
Evil Nanna
My Nan, still around, is a bit of a character and often gets her words wrong, for example: 'Them Americans drive courgettes, don't they?' and 'Bloody druggies and their crap pipes'.

Anyway, I have loads of stories about her but the most notable one happened when I was about 8 years old.

She and Grandpa Roy lived in a block of flats in Walderslade in Chatham and around the flat was a large grassed area where the local kids played football. Recently they had taken to kicking the ball against the side of the block which infuriated Nanna, conseqently she spent a lot of her time standing on her balcony shaking her fist at the kids and telling them to 'sod off'.

One Sunday, Mum, Dad my little sister and I trundled round there for one of Nannas Sunday roasts and when she opened the door my poor 8 year old eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. She was wearing an apron, but not just any old apron, this was an apron with a pair of rubberised double D boobies on the front and a curious flap at groin level.

As the adults made small talk and we terrorised her two pet terrapins, the thud from the football being kicked against the side of the block of flats became louder and more persistent so Nanna, with a look of fury on her face, marched out of the flat and round to the kids and shouted 'OI, CLEAR OFF YOU LITTLE SODS BEFORE I SEND MY ROY DOWN HERE TO GIVE YOU A BLOODY GOOD HIDING.....' She trailed off, staring at the startled little row of 'O' shaped mouthes and eyes in front of her and the realisation that she was standing there in The Apron dawned upon her.

She chuckled, gave a raunchy wiggle, planted her feet hip width and placed her hands on her hips and then lifted the flap, which contained a rubberised willy complete with pubes and ballbag, gave a pelvic thrust and shouted 'COOOOOEEEEEEEEE' as the little moppets scattered never to return.

From our vantage point on the balcony, Mum, Dad and Grandpa Roy were doubled over with mirth and my sister and I were absolutely dumbstruck. She was awesome!
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 11:01, 3 replies)
Reposted for a second time as it is relevant to Q:
I've posted this before
...but this REALLY hurts.

My Grandfather was an English professor - in the 70s it was his expert testimony that enabled the Sex Pistols to call their LP 'Never Mind The Bollocks' as he attested 'bollocks' was not technically an obscene word.

The band gave him a copy of the LP signed by them all, thanking him for his pivotal assistance.

My lovely old gran gave it to Oxfam in the 80s, unplayed.


Incidentally during the trial the prosecution tried to belittle my grandfather; 'so, you're an expert on the word 'bollocks' are you?', they asked him (he was wearing his vicar's dog collar for added effect).

'Oh, no', he replied, 'I can tell you all about 'fuck' and 'shit' too'.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 10:54, 3 replies)
Culture Clash
I have never really seemed to hit it off with my Grandad. At first I thought it was just that we were different generations and he had no time for me until I realised that we are different in every way. I enjoy playing musical instruments and socialising with a wide spectrum of people while he hangs about in a very closed knit social circle and enjoys watching the TV while at the dinner table. He also takes a bit of a standoff approach to my laid back attitude and lack of career motivation.

Ok so he has a few differences to you, man up and let it go I hear you say but the truth is it doesn’t end there. I guess it has something to do with the fact that I look a bit like my dad because that’s when gramps becomes more unhinged towards me. The most major incident involving me and him was when I was helping out my dad once and the old sod ran me over in his car. No warning or anything just *Boom * one Ko’ed kid.

The thing that really bugs me most is that grandpa would have a different opinion of me if he knew that thanks to me his daughter (my Mum) would have ended up looking like a swamp pig and married to a nobody but due to a few minor changes to the timeline she’s now living a much better life. Better get off I’m off to the lake with Jennifer…if Doc doesn’t turn up again that is.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 10:31, 4 replies)
Last words
One grandfather died before I was born, his wife died when I was one. Other grandfather died when I was 9, wasn't allowed to see him, so I only got one set of last words spoken to me by a grandparent.

"Who's she?"

Damn the long hair.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 10:25, Reply)
Grandad-related pearoast
My grandad. Yorkshireman. Traditionalist. Likes his bitter and his whisky and smokes a pipe. Nice chap, but if we're being honest, he dislikes people who are different...

Combine him with the family who moved in to the house next door a few years back, and you have a problem.

Forty-something single-mother. Four kids by a few different blokes. No man on the scene. Nothing wrong with all that, of course, as my Grandma kept pointing out to him: 'You've got to understand, it's not like the Old Days, let them be, Ray....'

But he had his prejudices, of course. They didn't help by letting the garden go wild, which upset my Grandad more than any amount of promiscuity and childbirth out of wedlock ever could. His garden is his pride and joy - he goes out and weeds first thing each morning and keeps a beautiful terrace of flowerbeds running down his sloped garden from the immaculate patio (this is an ex. council house in Leeds, by the way, he's just a very keen gardener)

He moaned and moaned about this. He felt that their lack of care ruined his enjoyment. He couldn't sit out in the garden and relax while there were feral kids kicking a football round an overgrown garden next door.

Again, my grandma was the voice of reason. 'It's their garden, Ray, and they're doing nothing wrong - forget about it or just grow the hedge high, but stop moaning.'

And so a sort of peace was reached. He bit his lip and got on with things, and all was well.

One evening after a while of this entente cordiale , Grandma's in the kitchen and Grandad walks through with his whisky, his pipe, and the paper, heading out to read it on the patio before dinner. Moments later, he comes back in, whisky in hand, pipe drooping unlit in his mouth.

'June - come outside for a moment dear'
'What's up Ray?'
'Come outside, darling'

So she follows him out through the hanging blinds and in the middle of the patio, squatting just above the floor, is next door's youngest, nonchalantly crimping out a length on the pristine patio, whilst his mum, on the other side of the fence, is trying to tempt him back near enough to pick him up by waving a packet of chocolate buttons at him.

It was such an embarassing situation that everyone involved was a little bit shellshocked, I think (except the kid, who was totally oblivious). But next day, Grandad went over to see the lady next door and offered to sort her garden out if she wanted. So long as she got the kids to stay out of the garden.

He now has two gardens to work on (which he finds a benefit in itself), and next door's not so unsightly as a result, plus no one shits on his patio.

(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 10:25, Reply)
Welsh Grandmother
Completely bonkers, religious nut-case and a teetotaller.

Pulled me aside when I was 14 having had a glass of wine with my dinner.

"You do realise you're going to burn in hell? You're going to BURN"

Thanks Gran.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 10:24, 4 replies)
I still get angry at my paternal grandmother sometimes (contains excessive ranting / funny ratio)
and she's been dead for like, four years. It's not even like she was a concertedly bad person, she just did one really stupid and unfair thing once. Most of the family live in the Londonish area, or did at that time; we live in Scotland, so seeing the family was a long trip with lots of luggage.

So, at the end of one series of visits when I was about 14, we're packing up, shifting all the luggage out of Granny & Granddad's house, all goes fine, Granny can't help much cause she's already pretty fragile at this point but she's laid on tea and cake, they wave us goodbye, Granddad smiles, slips his three grandkids a tenner each and off we go.

By the time we've got back home, Granny has accused me, to my dad's sisters and thus to my dad, of casually physically assaulting her. Apparently I thought that while everyone was distracted lifting luggage, I could amuse myself by kicking her in the leg.
Weirdly enough I have no memory of this. But my aunt's seen the bruise, Granny is steadfast in her utterly fucking ridiculous claim, and my protests of 'why the hell would I do that?' only add to their airtight case. Why WOULD someone do that? I don't have a reason, so I must be a psychotic sicko, and that's exactly the sort of thing a psycho-sicko would do...fuck it, I gave up arguing and just accepted the judgement. To this day I still have to suppress the urge to punch people who want me to apologise for something I didn't do; my hatred of wrongful accusation was forged sharp and hard in the fires of that one imposed 'misdeed'.

I did apologise, of course. What else could I do?

I have no idea what actually went on. My most charitable interpretation was that maybe, just possibly, I'd been a bit careless with a heavy suitcase or something? Not great of me, but far short of viciously assaulting my bloody grandmother for kicks. Seeing as how she went absolutely batshit doolally towards the end, though, I think that she made the whole thing up and it was an early sign of her mind going. Daft bint.

On a brighter note, my mum's mum is still going strong, and some of the best memories I have are of playing at her house. And we're off to see the family again in a month at some massive company bash my uncle's holding. In that light, it's a real shame that the only really strong memory I have of my other granny is of an inexplicable slander that I'll never know the truth of because she was gone long before she was dead.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 9:56, 1 reply)

Watching the news one day with wife, and her very Scottish grandmother. A young reprobate, it is reported, is going to go down for 6 years for arson. She looks up, outraged, and starts venting:

"Arson? They canna say that on the tv. And 6 years? I dinna agree with it, and there's too much of it about now an a', but you get less for robbery. I liked that Dick Emery too..."

While the stream of consciousness ranting continues, wife and I look at each other, puzzled. Wife clicks.

"Arson, nan. Not arsing."
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 9:50, Reply)
My Grandad hated fireworks
My grandad is 98 and still going. He was in the home guard during the war and manned the guns on Wanstead Flats in East London.

His favourite trick if approached/called by any sales person was to utter the phrase "Let me tell you about the war" and then regale them with stories till they were dying to get away.
He found it so funny to act the part of some stupid old duffer that he would literally cry tears of laughter about it and has never managed to finish telling us the story.

When he told real stories of the war (to us) it was usually about shooting the big guns at the planes coming over (and maybe the v1,v2). his main story was how the guns were so loud that he and several of the other men, would involuntarily shit themselves every time they were fired.

However he never told me the story about why he hated fireworks (and anything else that goes bang). My cousin told me while grandad lay almost dead with pneumonia about a year ago.

He was working at a factory in the docklands when the air raid siren came on. As you (should) know, the docklands were one of the main targets during an air raid.
Everyone was ordered down into the shelters and marched off. Except my grandad who was (and still is) inseparable from my nan.
He wanted to be at home with his wife and kids. so ignoring all the shouts to get under cover, my grandad gets on his pushbike and rides off.
Now its night time, everywhere is blacked out and he's riding like the clappers on this crappy old bike, the fear of god making his legs pedal as fast as he can.
Then it starts. Bombs start falling over London, explosions are hitting the docklands, others falling all over east london.
And my grandad is pedaling like fuck.

Halfway home he has to ditch the bike, he is shaking so much he cant ride it anymore. So he runs.
Up ahead, he can see East Ham and the streets of his home. As he runs there is a series of explosions up ahead.
All over the area the only light is coming from buildings burning and more explosions as the bombs fall.

He finally gets to his street to find his house is a pile of burning rubble.
I can't even imagine what must have been going through his head at that moment. My cousin didnt know and I have a feeling that my grandad has never, ever spoken about it.
Luckily, there is no need to. My nan, my mum and her two brothers had been at a neighbours house when the siren went off and were safe.

To this day he doesn't talk about it much, but at least I know why he never had fireworks at his house when I was a kid.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 9:49, 1 reply)
My Gran, now sadly deceased...
...in the middle of a casual conversation with the family came out with the gem:

"Suck suck, spit spit, say no more."

(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 9:28, 1 reply)
My Grandad on my dad's side was a legend. He was captured during WW1 when his machine gun was mortared. He was injured ,though not life-threaening. He'd already been through some horrors of war, which he would talk about when he'd had a few, but that's another story.

Apparently the Allies had tried to set up a prisoner exchange via Switzerland, whereby soldiers could be repatriated. I don't know the exact details, and no doubt some pedant will correct me, but Grandad ended up in Switzerland when the scheme broke down and he was stranded there for the rest of the war.

Being a sporty type, he had trials for Berne Town football club, and got taken on as a professional, earning the equivalent of £3 per week, which was a tidy sum apparently. He stayed until the end of the war, and we still have his League and Cup Winners medals proudly displayed alongside his campaign medals.

When he came home he used to regale us about how the village turned out to meet his train, and the local bobby reminded him that he still had a caution outstanding for speeding on his motorbike!
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 9:28, Reply)
I must have been about 5, which would make my brother two.
I decided he was my pet horse for some reason, and was happy watching him crawl round while I made clip clop sounds and horse noises (I may have been a slightly odd child). But soon this wasn't enough for me, he wasn't horsey enough. Something was missing. And then I had a brainwave and run off to get something to put round his neck, something that I could pretend was one of those collars workshorses wear (I have no idea what they are called I'm afraid. Bridles?). I popped it over his neck and stood back, satisfied that the horsey look was complete. And then Dad wheeled Nan into the room and at which point she shrieked, 'Why is he wearing my piles cushion?'
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 9:24, 1 reply)
My nan died two days ago.

(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 9:02, 9 replies)
edit: Fuck it, that was a lot of sentimental bullshit I had here before.

Instead I'll just mention the most awkward conversation I have had in my life when I had to go along with my Nan in agreeing that the day I married my mother was the best day of my life because it was easier than trying to explain to her that I wasn't my Dad.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 9:01, 5 replies)
Dick & Tibby
I never met my grandfather (mother’s side) but I was named after him in his honour. From family stories, he was a complete legend! Here is one such tale…

Soon after my parents first met, my grandparents invited them over for Sunday lunch and a chance to meet and talk. Dick (he was never referred to as Richard) was told to be on best behaviour. That meant no booze, dancing (the twist was his best move) or stories about being a “removals man”.

The introductions went well and the food and conversation was all good. My nan sent Dick to the kitchen to get the trifle and bring it to the dining room table so it could be served to everyone. By this time everyone was relaxed and happy.
Upon returning from the kitchen with said trifle, Dick confidently stepped into the living room and tripped over the cat (Tibby) which was nicely perched in his way, thus dropping the trifle on the floor.

FUCCCKKKKIINNNGGG! TIIIBBYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!! (he screamed)

…And then went his foot right up the cats arse and proceeded to kick it across the room! As Tibby flew across the room Dick turned to the rest of the family as they looked in shock. My parents still laugh until they cry when they talk about this incident with him.

Other incidents include:

• Baby gate to stop him getting up stairs after he had been to the pub
• My nan coming home to find a massive party in full swing (he decided to invite everyone over from the pub)
• Challenging everyone to the twist at my parents wedding (AND out twisting them)
• Bringing my dad home unconscious from the pub over his shoulder
• Flogging all the furniture (t’was stolen) to the local takeaway as the police were coming around
• Fighting my mum’s old teacher as he had thrown her down some stairs

The list goes on! Would have loved to have met him.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 8:01, 3 replies)
My Maternal Grandmother
Having previously given birth to my aunt in 1922 who weighed a massive 14 pounds at birth, by contrast my mother when she was born two years later weighed only 3 pounds . Of course this was before the advent of incubators, antibiotics etc. etc. and consequently the doctor told my Gran that there was virtually no chance of her baby daughter surviving. "Oh yes she will!" replied my Gran and with that, she sent my grandfather down to the Off licence to buy a miniature bottle of brandy ( No doubt that was all they could afford in those far off days) teemed a teaspoon of the aforementioned liquor down baby's throat, wrapped her up, in a blanket and put her in a cot by the fire. Well it must have done the trick (obviously ) But apparently for the first 3 months of her life my mum was dressed in dolls clothes as she was so tiny. By the way my mother lived into her eightieth year!
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 7:41, Reply)
My grandma was in service as a cook housekeeper in the early 1900s
She cooked the last meal that Captain Scott had in England, before he sailed off to the South Pole for the last time. No wonder he decided to stay down there, she was a lousy cook when I knew her.

Except for roast spuds, they were ace.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 7:23, Reply)
He was a farmer, and carried on working well into his eighties. One very windy day we arrived to see him walking around the yard carrying two buckets of water. I rushed over and offered to carry them for him. "don't be silly, they're the only thing stopping me blowing over," he said.

Another time he decided to kill a hen to eat. Being too old to run around the yard and catch one, he got his shotgun, crept up behind a hen and blasted it. There wasn't much of the hen left.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 6:30, 1 reply)
The true story of how my grandad met my grandmother.
My Grandad once had the great fortune to meet a beautiful young woman from Spiddel in the west of Ireland very brieflly. He lived in Dublin at the time and knew nothing about her other than her name- Kathleen Naughton, and where she lived- Spiddel.

So being an enterprising young man he wrote her a love letter telling her how he felt about her and that he wanted to see her again. He adressed it to Kathleen Naughton- Spiddel Galway. What he didn't know was that this was quite a rural area, and people had a tendancy to name each other after immediate relatives, whats more there were several Naughton families in the area. As a result there were dozens of Kathleen Naughtons in the area. To avoid problems people in the locality refered to each other by their first name, and instead of their surnames, by their father, grand father and great grandfathers first names instead. (she was Kathleen Tom, Michael, Eoin for what its worth.)He being a city slicker did not know this.

For two years the letter was circulated between every every Kathleen Naughton in the area- from Spinsters as old as 90 to girls as young as 12 until it reached the right woman. She read the letter and finally agreed to meet him. Then he saw her better looking sister and married her instead. And that is the true story of how my grandad met my grannie- Mary Naughton.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 5:09, 1 reply)
I've always enjoyed a fairly distant relationship with my paternal grandfather. Not bad, just distant.

A few years ago, at the end of a slightly stilted telephone conversation, he signed off with "Well, just watch out for that LSD."
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 4:57, Reply)
My grandfather was at Pearl Harbor
He never liked to talk about it though. He just told me that no matter how hard my day was, at least I wasn't listening to my friends drown and knowing there was nothing I could do to save them. It put some stuff into perspective for me. I just need to remember that more.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 4:36, 2 replies)
Granda was the spitting image of MacMillan to my eyes. A 'tache & drooping eye.

A long-time farmer, he had his right ulna shot thru in WW1, and it always gave me great pleasure as a bairn to squeeze his arm where the bone used to be. Me being on the sick side, even as a kid.

For his grandkids he came across as a relatively benign old soul, but I recently discovered that my granda "had a bike", & there's another almost completely unknown side of the family. All I could do when I found this out was laugh, & think 'the randy old goat'. I only thought this because i was old enough to appreciate the
vagaries in long-term relationships.

However, it must have hurt his family a lot, especially my granny (who I loved greatly). When she died, I took to my bed for a weekend (I was one of her fave grandkids). To my innocent eyes, my granny & granda were the epitome of a couple, in that they raised a family under fairly poor circumstances, and lived to tell the tale.

I have the utmost respect for them in that they stayed together through the good & bad times, as they promised to do at their wedding. How many can say the same thing nowadays?

On the other side of things, he had at least two strokes whilst driving, landing the car in the ditch both times. I should be grateful that I'm even here, as a at least one of the accidents involved both my parents. Granda rocks!

Granny & Granda - RIP.
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 4:26, Reply)
On my Mum's side...
At the tender ages of 94/95 my grandparents have finally been coaxed out of their 15th-century deathtrap house and into a nursing home. My grandfather is almost blind, almost deaf, walks at shuffling pace while bent double, is unbelievably cranky, and has outstayed his welcome on this planet by about two or three years.

So, my nan is loving the nursing home as there's lots of other old biddies to talk about the war with, grandpa is threatening to call the police because they won't let him smoke in his room.

In the run up to the big move, my mum was down at the house going through 40-odd years worth of crap that my grandpa had accumulated, separating it into small things to take with him, stuff to go to auction, stuff to go into a skip.

Sitting there with the old man, he just randomly declares "I've got a skeleton". Sure enough, it's upstairs in a closet - a human half-skeleton with skull, spine, ribcage but no arms and legs. It should be pointed out my grandfather was a surgeon in his prime, not a serial killer (that we know of).

So Mum goes home and tells my Dad, who instantly suggests it be buried in the garden for the new owners of the house to find in a few years time when they're planting some veggies.

This idea is quickly shot down, as is the suggestion it be left in the basement under a tarp. It ended up going to the wife of one of Dad's colleagues, who was an osteopath, for the princely sum of 250 quids...
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 4:18, Reply)
On my Dad's side...
Grandpasquirrel was fiercely independent. On one occasion aged 80-something he was stanidng on the back of his pickup truck chopping wood when he fell off, splitting his head open.

Rather than call an ambulance, he clamped a handkerchief over the bloody wound and drove himself the 15 miles to the nearest hospital, much to the amazement of the A&E staff who admitted him.

Sadly he was also fairly paranoid about going as doolally as all his mates, and he topped himself about a year later as he didn't want to be a burden on his kids.

I didn't cry much as over the course of time he'd never once called me by name, preferring to refer to me as 'boy', which used to drive my mother to a state of apoplexy (then again, so does channel 4).
(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 3:11, Reply)
I love my Grandad------
even though strictly speaking he isn't my Grandad. My Mum wasn't married when I was conceived. My "proper" Grandad was a Jehovah's Witness and thus both I and my mother became Persona Non Grata as far as he was concerned.

Fortunately my maternal Grandmother had remarried a few years previously and both she and her new husband took us under their wing. He cared for me and my Mum like we were his own despite him having his own Children and Grandchildren. Not only did he make me feel wanted but also made my Mum feel like she had both parents again.

I know you read this website occasionally, and I know how I have told you many times before how much you mean to me but I hope you see this and know that I love you very very much.

Thank you.

(, Fri 3 Jun 2011, 2:24, Reply)

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